


One Night During the War

by SusanaR



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Brothers, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Protectiveness, Season 3 Speculation, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:40:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanaR/pseuds/SusanaR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war has been going on for four years. For the four inseparables, it seemed like a lifetime, but at least they had one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night During the War

**Author's Note:**

> Quote:
> 
> “The first virtue in a soldier is endurance of fatigue; courage is only the second virtue.” - Napoleon Bonaparte 
> 
> A/N: Please forgive the numerous historical discrepancies! This is just my theory of what an average night on the battlefield might be like for the Musketeers.

Campfires dotted the vast fields of French tents as three weary Musketeers made their way back to their own camp. 

“If General de Conde wants a final push before autumn, he’s gonna have to get those supply lines straightened out,” muttered Porthos.

“At least the General is aware it’s a problem,” said d’Artagnan, pushing a lock of sweaty hair away from his face, “That’s more than can be said of the Vicomte de Turenne.”

Porthos grunted in agreement. Athos considered reprimanding them both for a lack of discretion, but they were close enough to the Musketeer camp that it was unlikely they would be overheard. And Athos couldn’t disagree. While the Musketeers themselves were well-supplied, thanks to the support of the King and Queen, many other regiments were not so lucky.

“What if we were to send the artillery engineers and their support down the valley again,” offered d’Artagnan, “with us as escort?”

“No good, pup,” retorted Porthos without much heat, his fallback to the hated nickname enough to convey what he thought of this particular idea of their Gascon’s, “No way we can take the valley back until the King buys more Swiss mercenaries in the spring.”

“But it might be enough of a distraction to make the Spaniards fall back from threatening our supply lines in order to defend the valley,” murmured Athos with a sudden, rare smile. “It is a good thought, d’Artagnan. One worth running by the General, at the least.”

“Ha!,” Laughed Porthos, slapping d’Artagnan heartily on the back, “This’s why you get to go to all of those dull meetings with Athos.” 

D’Artagnan withstood the affection without even a wince, and waved off the praise. “Anything to avoid inventorying ammunition, or helping the Quartermaster as you’ve been doing. I don’t like sums enough for that.”

“Hmm. Then I will let you present your idea to the General,” teased Athos, before deciding that he wasn’t entirely jesting. By now d’Artagnan had earned the grudging respect of even the General himself. It was almost hard to remember that General de Conde and his seconds had not thought much of d’Artagnan three years ago when Athos first began attending staff meetings with d’Artagnan in tow. The Musketeers’ youngest was still only twenty-four, a veritable child amongst the old campaigners. But he was smart, and he didn’t make mistakes twice. Well, normally.

Athos’ eyes narrowed at the memory of a report he’d received earlier that day. He stopped walking long enough to gain d’Artagnan’s attention.

When he had it, Athos said mildly, “If Captain Baudin drafts you to lead his lancers in a foray again, you are to say that you are required to return to the Musketeer camp. He has a poor habit of overextending his advances, and I – we - can’t afford to lose you right now.” Or at all, for that matter.

Even in the face of Athos’ disapproval and Porthos’ stormy glare, d’Artagnan was still bold enough to protest, “He was short a lieutenant, and I was there delivering a message for you. It would have been impolite to refuse.”

“I will speak to him, then. If he is short-staffed, he should be asking Turenne for reinforcements, not poaching my men.” 

“So that’s what you were doing when you missed lunch,” commented Porthos with another frown for d'Artagnan, “And weren’t you with Turenne when the Spanish infantry made that break this morning?”

“Yes, but that was a different situation. It was fight or be killed,” d’Artagnan explained, his exhaustion now plain. But even dead on his feet, it was d’Artagnan’s sharp eyes that first noticed something amiss with an infantryman chatting up the Musketeers sentries.

Sensing that the jig was up, the dark-haired man yelled a Spanish epithet and discharged his pistol at Porthos. Even at such a short range, Porthos was able to dodge. He might not have avoided the three further assailants who seized the distraction to come charging towards him from the adjoining infantry camp, but Athos and d'Artagnan were there. And what were brothers for, after all? 

Between the three of them and the sentries, the men were not difficult to subdue. After they had been disarmed, Porthos picked the first of them up by his shirt front. The Spanish spy-master Vargas had not forgotten the promise he'd made to kill Porthos in the wake of his unwilling command performance unmasking Rochefort before the King. Vargas semi-regularly sent minions to try to fulfill that promise.

“Vargas needs t’ stop sending spies rather than soldiers if he really wants to kill me.” Porthos scolded the man, “An’ if one of his bullets actually succeeds in hitting a Musketeer, I’m gonna tell the jailer to execute the lot of you.” At Porthos’ merciful insistence, Vargas’ incompetent assassins had here-to-fore joined the other prisoners of war. Given that this one’s aim had been better than most, Athos suspected that Porthos was taking out his frustration with the Vicomte de Turenne on Vargas’ assassin. Still . . .

“We would be well within our rights to kill you,” Athos told the man conversationally, “Given that you are in a French rather than a Spanish uniform, and have just shot at a Musketeer.”

The man’s defiance slipped away. Porthos dropped him, and one of the sentries volunteered to take him to the prison camp. 

“Come, my friend,” Athos said softly to the largest and kindest of his brothers, “I think that you have missed dinner, and that always puts you in a dark mood.” That was true, but it was also true that d’Artagnan’s adventures that day, coupled with Aramis being overdue from his most recent trip on the King and Queen’s behalf, had contributed to Porthos being in a rare temper.

Soon enough, they were ensconced in Athos’ tent, eating a late and cold supper. Porthos did relax. Food and knowing that at least two of his friends were safe had that effect on him. D’Artagnan, on the other hand, was nearly asleep in his stew.

Athos exchanged an amused glance with Porthos, who kicked d’Artagnan gently on the shin.

The Gascon awoke with a start, one hand going to his pistol and the other to his sword before he realized where he was and subsided with a blush.

“Go rest on my cot. You are dead on your feet,” Athos commanded.

D’Artagnan blushed again, “I can make it back to my tent, Athos.”

It was the tent that d’Artagnan shared with Porthos, and normally with Aramis as well. Athos, as Captain of the Musketeers, had his own tent, although he ended up sharing it with his two older companions whenever the lovely Constance was sent to the French lines with a message from the Queen for the Musketeers.

“Humor me,” said Athos easily, not wanting to explain that he wanted d’Artagnan nearby after his peregrinations of the day. And not needing to explain, for d’Artagnan understood very well, and capitulated gracefully. Enough so for Athos to tease, “But if you forget to take your boots off before lying down on my cot again, I will make you regret it.”

“Yes, Captain,” said d’Artagnan cheekily, prompting a laugh from Porthos. He and Athos spoke of supply orders for a handful of minutes until d’Artagnan’s breathing evened out.

When they were sure he was asleep, Porthos asked, “Can we send ‘im home for a break soon? I don’t like how tired he is.”

“He’s a good soldier, he’ll be fine.” Athos reassured. He didn’t say that with both Lieutenants Marion and Dubois still on the injured list, he needed d’Artagnan as well as Porthos to fill in. He didn’t have to. Porthos knew, but it didn’t mean that either of them liked it. Athos had spent the last part of the winter back in Paris with Treville and the war council, and Porthos had gone with him. Lieutenant Marion had held the command during the winter ceasefire, which had ended unexpectedly soon due to a sneak Spanish advance. Marion had been wounded so severely that d’Artagnan had taken command of the regiment during the latter part of the engagement. d'Artagnan had even suborned Aramis into acting as lieutenant until Athos, Porthos, and the other officers returned from Paris. Which was quite a feat in and of itself, because the slaughter in Savoy had broken something in Aramis. Before then, Athos knew that their romantic friend had been fast-tracked for an officer’s position. After Savoy, Aramis hadn’t had the heart to command. But he’d done it for d’Artagnan. For d’Artagnan, who could really use a rest in Paris, but Athos couldn’t spare him.

“Ah, well,” said Porthos with a making-the-best-of-it air, “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea anyway. Little Alexandre has just been weaned, and every time d’Artagnan goes home and Constance isn’t still suckling a babe, they wind up with another one nine months later.”

Athos chuckled. “I am not sure that our Constance would mind. Little Marie-Cessette and baby Alexandre are quite engaging little creatures.” 

Porthos snorted in agreement, “King thinks so, too. Right dotes on 'em, near as much as e' does the princes. Good thing our d'Artagnan's a good soldier and a right charmer himself, otherwise the favor the King shows 'im would put some noses out of joint.” 

“It would, indeed.” Athos frowned as he thought of the King, and of Louis’ lack of awareness of how hard the war had been on France, and on Paris. The Musketeers were in a better situation than most. They took care of their own, and more besides. Porthos had even gone so far as interacting with his alienated father the Marquis de Belgard in order to convince him to open his home to recovering soldiers. In Paris itself the price of bread had risen to an almost criminally high level, and many other problems existed, hidden from the King and his court. During their winter visit, Porthos had made a friend and ally out of a recent war widow, Sylvie, who now provided Constance and Treville with regular updates on the state of matters within the city. 

“Perhaps when winter comes, if our Spanish friends withdraw as they have in the past, you and d’Artagnan can both return to Paris. Sylvie would undoubtedly be glad to see you.” Athos knew that she and Porthos frequently corresponded, and suspected that their relationship had become intimate by the time he and Porthos left Paris last winter. But Porthos was close-mouthed about his romantic liaisons, and Sylvie was not yet out of mourning.

A cheerful whistle and an exchange of friendly greetings outside the tent interrupted their conversation. Athos and Porthos shared fond smiles, then got up to greet the returning Aramis.

Alone of all the Musketeers, Aramis had taken religious vows before the war began. His uniform bore a cross denoting his dual status, and he frequently ministered to their brothers in addition to his many other duties. Now he was back from a desperate mission for the Queen and King. 

Athos and Porthos embraced him firmly, Porthos going so far as to pick Aramis up off his feet. All three – all four, in fact - were quite well aware that any time they parted might be the last, and so reunions were celebrated. Normally d’Artagnan would have arisen immediately, but now he only stirred.

Athos walked over to his cot and knelt, brushing a fond hand over d’Artagnan’s brow. “It is just Aramis, go back to sleep. You may greet him when you have slept enough to remember your own name upon waking.”

When d’Artagnan immediately obeyed, Aramis frowned at him in concern.

“Pneumonia again?” he asked softly. 

“No, jus’ tired,” Porthos assured.

“Although if you would like to have a look at him, regimental medic, he is out again and I would be grateful,” Athos confessed. 

Aramis smiled and obliged, resting a gentle hand on d’Artagnan’s brow and then moving to the hollow of his throat to take his pulse. To Athos’ relief, he nodded in satisfaction.

D’Artagnan woke again, at least enough to blink at Aramis in confusion.

“Shh, go back to sleep. I shook you to stop you snoring,” teased Aramis. 

“I don't snore,” d’Artagnan retorted indignantly. 

“Go back to sleep,” ordered Athos, both relieved and worried when d’Artagnan obeyed. It was true that the Gascon didn’t snore. He never snored, not even when he had been ill near death with pneumonia during the second year of the war. Some of Athos’ worst moments in the past few years had been spent listening to d’Artagnan weakly gasp for breath. It had been particularly hard to leave him, but battles waited for no man. But fortunately for all of them, the worst of d’Artagnan’s illness had coincided with a visit from Anne.

“Take care of him,” Athos had ordered the current Mistress Anne of London, the former Milady de Winter and Comtesse de la Fére. 

Milady nodded, but it was all the affirmation Athos had needed. She was a liar, but he’d known he could trust her in this.

Porthos, not so much.

“If he's dead when we get back . . .,” he began threateningly.

“Porthos,” snapped Milady Anne, “out of all the men I've ever slept with, d’Artagnan is my second favorite. I'm hardly going to let him die. The world would be a much duller place without him in it, and you know how I hate dull.” 

“Our world would, certainly,” Athos had said, before taking his leave to go and command that day’s sortie. And it was true. Aramis and Porthos were his friends and his brothers, but d'Artagan was that, and Athos’ mirror as well. Aramis and Porthos knew what Athos was thinking because they had known him for so long, but d’Artagnan, even from the start, had known what Athos was thinking because he himself thought along similar lines. Even to the extent that the two of them had only ever loved two women, and they were the SAME two women. Oh, Athos had always felt more an older brother's love for Constance, but if she had been older, and he less heart-weary . . . In any case, Athos certainly loved his youngest brother's wife. And Milady . . . Well, what she was to Athos was too complicated for words, but too dear to lose.

Anne had left France for London at the start of the war. In London she had used her generous reward for helping the Musketeers to reveal Rochefort as a Spanish spy to invest in English war profiteering. As questionably moral as that was, when she learned of a plot by Spain to bribe an English admiral to attack French supply ships, she’d returned to France and advised Athos and Treville. Since then, she had become, sometimes, at her convenience, a spy for France in England. King Louis had decided, once Milady made herself useful again, that it had been Rochefort who had poisoned him against her and not Milady’s own (in that one instance understandable) behavior. Queen Anne, much like Constance, tolerated Milady for her protection of their families. Either bearing messages or merely for her own amusement, Milady turned up at the war camp now and again, sometimes dressed in fine velvet gowns and sometimes in riding clothes.

She and Athos had become lovers again. He knew that his brothers were concerned for him, especially d’Artagnan, much of whose anger and hurt stemmed from having once cared for Milady only to be hurt by her lies. Athos certainly understood how that felt. But time had passed, and Milady had changed, and Thomas . . . well, Athos still did not know the truth of what had happened between his brother and his love. But, wherever the real truth of it lay, Athos was sure that Milady, at least, had felt in fear of her life when Thomas confronted her. Whether it had been fear of Thomas, due to a foul advance that he’d made in truth or threat, or whether it had been the fear of returning to the terror of Saracen and her old life, Athos could not be sure.

But he had seen, since the war stared and Milady had defended herself at times from the unwanted advances of soldiers from less noble regiments, that she had a reaction to such propositions which was similar to Aramis' reaction when they were in the presence of Savoyards. What Anne had survived in her life before Athos had left a mark on her, such that she might not have been entirely sane and aware in the moment when she killed Thomas. It made Athos feel more the monster for having sentenced her to death, but he had been so young then, so inexperienced and full of foolish pride. What he had he known of the fear for her life and sanity that Anne must have felt in that moment? What had Thomas known? If Athos had learned of Anne’s past first, and forgiven her for it, how much different would their lives have been? And yet, without Thomas' murder and Anne's almost-hanging, Athos would never have met his brothers, including the youngest. 

For whatever reason Anne had killed Thomas, d'Artagnan had been alive when they returned from battle that day. And not just alive, but recovered enough to be glaring at Milady over the contents of a soup bowl. It was the first time anyone had been able to get a liquid into him in days, even Athos, and Athos, Porthos and Aramis were all grateful. For that, and for the medicines that Anne had somehow found for d'Artagnan when even the sons of nobles had been forced to make do with nothing but strong, cheap wine. 

“Ah-hah,” exclaimed Aramis as he rummaged through his pack, distracting Athos from his thoughts of the past. “Look what I have for d’Artagnan when he wakes.”

Athos obligingly looked. It was a locket, with a miniature of Constance painted on one side, and on the other, one of Marie-Cessette and Alexandre, with Alexandre cradled in the arms of Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne. The ten year old noble boy served as a page to Queen Anne, and Constance had taken him under her wing to the extent that she regarded him as another son. D’Artagnan had come to feel the same during his brief visits to Paris, despite the relatively small gap in their respective ages. Athos could understand their fondness. Raoul was a brave and polite child. Even Milady seemed to like him, and Milady did not, as a rule, like children. That was something which had come to bother Athos slightly as he watched d’Artagnan and Constance begin their family, and spent time with young Raoul. But first the war had to end. Then he could have that talk with Anne, if he dared.

Aramis was searching through his pack again, this time producing a box full of similar lockets. However, instead of Constance and her children, each contained a portrait of the King and Queen on the one side, and on the other a portrait of the Dauphin, Louis Dieudonné, and his younger brother Prince Phillippe.

“The King and Queen arranged for all of the musketeers to have these,” Aramis explained.

“How very thoughtful of them,” replied Athos neutrally. He had his suspicions that the King was infertile, and that the young Phillippe, conceived not long after a narrowly averted assassination attempt on the Dauphin which had terrified the Queen, was also Aramis’ son. But he had not voiced his suspicions, nor had Porthos or d’Artagnan. The truth was likely only known to Queen Anne, Aramis, and perhaps Constance, who would have been the logical person to have arranged a clandestine liaison between the Queen and her favorite Musketeer, if there had in fact been one.

No one had ever even whispered that Prince Phillipe was not the son of the King, nor had anyone said so of Louis Dieudonné since the fall of Rochefort. The King saw his handsome sons, with their dark wavy hair and dark eyes, as being the very image of him when he had been younger. But Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan and Treville watched them, and knew that they had an innate grace, compassion, and charm that had never come from Louis. But because the King saw in them a mirror of the man he wanted to be, and because no one would ever dare tell the King he was not that man, Aramis’ secret – and Anne’s – was safe. 

"I saw that you posted extra sentries," remarked Aramis, calling Athos' attention again to the present as he asked, "Did I miss anything exciting?" 

"Oh, nothing much," Athos explained with a faint smile, "Varga sent another three men to assassinate Porthos." 

"Nothing remarkable then. But one does have to admire Varga's persistence. You must have made quite an impression on him, Porthos." 

"It's my charm." 

Aramis' answering laugh awoke d'Artagnan for true. The smile alighting his face when Aramis gave him the portraits made Athos resolve that they must end this war, so that his youngest brother could be home with the children Athos viewed as his own niece and nephews, if for no other reason.

D'Artagnan immediately tied the locket around his neck. When he had adjusted it to his satisfaction, he grinned and asked Aramis, “So, has the Queen’s sister agreed to convince the Holy Roman Emperor to support France in the war?”

Aramis laughed, and then scolded, “No one ever said that was my mission!”

The four Musketeers exchanged a series of smiles. With the four of them together, again, it was more than a little like going home. There was nothing quite like the peace and harmony of not having to even speak the most important things, because one’s brothers already knew. The four of them, together, they would finish this war. Aramis would return to his monastery, receiving frequent visits from his brothers. D’Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos would return to the Musketeer garrison. D’Artagnan would be with his family, and Athos and Porthos might finally have the chance to make families of their own. In due time, d’Artagnan would become the new Captain of the Musketeers, and Athos would wish him joy of it. But for now, they would share a bottle of wine, and celebrate being able to toast the end of another day together.

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive the rampant season 3 speculation! I'm not sure who Sylvie is going to be on the show, so I based that quick mention mostly on spoilers and partially on my thought that it would be neat to see Porthos with a love interest. 
> 
> I pulled the names of the generals from the history of the French and Spanish wars, but these wouldn't have been the right generals at the right times. Raoul, the page whom Constance has taken under her wing, is in the books an unknown son of Athos (Athos finds out later). I don't remember who his mother is in the books, other than that she was not Milady. For purposes of this little story, Milady is Raoul's mother. I like to think that Milady might have been pregnant with Athos' child when she first sought the Cardinal's protection, and that part of her price was him finding a good home for her son with a wealthy couple who weren't able to have children of their own. 
> 
> For the names of Constance and d'Artagnan's children, I chose Alexandre for the son and Marie-Cessette, the name of Dumas' grandmother, for the daughter.


End file.
